


reconstructed.

by riskbreakered



Category: City of Blades - Robert Jackson Bennett
Genre: AU, F/F, What if?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-07-29 19:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7696666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riskbreakered/pseuds/riskbreakered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate scenario, following Signe's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Here in Voortyashtan, time is a luxury she can hardly afford. But the agreement has been settled for weeks now and so she stands at the end of the pier and waits alone. Watching as the single cutter blusters its way in a jagged line down the wide, fang-filled mouth of the Solda river, Signe Harkvaldsson lights another cigarette in defiance of the rain and wind.

There is no gentle welcome awaiting them in a city such as this, she thinks.

Eventually, a figure pours unsteadily from ship to shore, and the Saypuri contact whom she was promised to comes forward to greet her. Signe waves, her mouth engaged with her cigarette, the embers burning stubbornly against the weather's all too familiar wrath. 

She pushes back her hood once the Saypuri comes close enough for conversation. She has practiced this greeting.

_Welcome, General, to the polis of Voortyashtan._

The words are said with a smile, for she at least is in her element in this brutal place. These crane-lined docks, this half-drowned city is hers to reconstruct, after all, and the tall Dreyling woman is accustomed to giving out orders instead of receiving them (but the scene playing out here says it all of course, and the might of Saypur must always be respected).

_I hope your crew treated you well?_

Signe glances over the smaller woman. This situation, a military woman with a hard stance broken by the force of the rain, her expression shifting the more she looks, this will all quickly be dealt with --

 _By all the hells,_ the Saypuri spits out, _if you're not the kin of Sigrud je Harkvaldsson._

Signe’s smile turns to ash.

***

It doesn’t take long to regain her composure.

On the train ride across the high white cliffs beyond the tattered remains of the old city, Signe offers calm and measured conversation -- a stark show of contrast to her new guest. This Turyin Mulaghesh, this seasoned hound of war sitting across from her, shows emotion on her sleeve.

Flawed and fraying at the edges, her displeasure at the situation ahead of her is made more than obvious.

She takes it all apart as they converse, this broken image of a Saypuri woman, the creases around her mouth as she interjects her cynical opinions, the strict posture, the stiff shape of one prosthetic hand as it rests in her lap (and it’s that last detail that she finds the most interesting).

They talk of war and dead gods, and the sea. A city sunk to the bottom of the bay.

A city that will, in a matter of months, be reshaped by her own methods. (Signe makes an effort to enforce the distance between her and that man Mulaghesh sees whenever she is talking.)

Afterwards, she takes the General to dinner.

***

Only after the truth has been set out across the table -- Mulaghesh’s bloody history and the implications that follow her presence and the unease it has already created in Voortyashtan -- it is only _then_ when she finds the other woman at a loss for words or a sharp retort.

A small victory, but one that is somehow satisfying.

 _It’s wise that someone has to keep an eye on you,_ Signe says, her smile as sharp as the stones outlining the bay. 

_It might as well be me._


	2. Chapter 2

In the interim, Signe does attempt to keep abreast on the General's comings and goings -- or at least there are brief notes left on her desk from those with more available time. The days between their meeting simply drip together as they always do, appointments and meetings flooding into one another, subsuming her attention.

(The investors remain quietly apprehensive, but every emergency remains prioritized. And besides, Signe finds some manner of comfort while Mulaghesh sleeps under the SDC roof.)

So it is, some time between these various appointments, that Mulaghesh eventually seeks her out, sailing between work sites, a scattered line of subordinates drifting out behind her. Signe isn't immediately concerned, her gaze moving to the inefficient prosthetic only for a moment -- the wooden hand curled into a fist at one side.

She isn't worried because this is, after all, her kingdom and her people. Like the notes on the clipboard she's carrying, everything is organized to her approval. No chaos will hinder it, especially not in the form of one woman.

The rest of her subordinates are given their tasks and scatter away, leaving just the two -- and her bodyguard. (As Mulaghesh scowls Lem's way, she makes the effort to introduce them.)

 _I have other matters to discuss with you_ , Mulaghesh insists. She looks hurried and impatient -- the expectation written clearly on her face.

 _Absolutely_ , Signe says, and then promptly shoots those expectations into the mud. 

Mulaghesh frowns and objects and barely keeps herself from cursing, but Signe isn't without generosity. Or information. (And if she is at all rankled about the questions on her sleeping habits -- an engineer being markedly less efficient than the machine -- she doesn't show it.)

The two walk together for a short time, talking about the General's missing quarry and her previous habits, a possible lead in the search, with Signe's wolfish guard never far behind.

Mulaghesh does well to take notes, appeased for now. Chaos, for the moment, contained. Signe moves beyond to her next appointment and doesn't glance back.

(The note for dinner is jotted below the rest.)


	3. Chapter 3

She’s nearly late. The scant few hours in which Signe had scheduled herself to sleep seem now leagues behind her and, after another string of meetings and other important duties, barely finds a moment to grab a cup of coffee. It’s still piping hot as she enters the private dining area, where she finds Mulaghesh is already waiting for her. 

Absorbed in a portfolio of her own notes, in fact, and the tall Dreyling leans over to inspect just what she’s been researching.

Surprise blossoms immediately, and she doesn’t find it unpleasant. This is a familiar painting. _Why are you reading about Thinadeshi?_ (Curiosity wins over caution.)

Mulaghesh startles, but explains the connection. Choudhry, again. Signe takes a seat as she talks; still finally, if only for a brief time. In contrast, it looks as if the Saypuri has finally managed some rest herself. Regardless of her usual blunt way of speaking, Mulaghesh looks different than before. 

_She was a childhood hero of mine, you know. The great engineer. And we had something in common, of course…_

_What was that?_

_Why, we both had a fucking miserable time in Voortyashtan, didn’t we?_

The personal confession is surprising, but slips under a cynical comment easily enough. Easily discarded, as Signe can’t seem to help herself and looks to her (admittedly rather keen) wristwatch out of habit. Time, time, always pressing on.

She moves the conversation along to the business at hand. Whatever will distract the Saypuri from any potential mischief (whatever keeps her investors satisfied).

\-- Wrong move on her part, it turns out, and Signe nearly spits out her coffee. 

_A bomb?_ Did she hear Mulaghesh correctly? Or had the exhaustion finally gotten the better of her?

_Well, realistically, it’s probably several bombs._

Before she can continue on very much further in her descriptions of potential security threats, Signe is on her feet before she can think to help herself. Composure, lost; this is her weakness. She is too tired and too startled to help it from showing, the panic seeps in at once, a hurricane force. 

Her mind wraps itself around the horror of the idea -- the visceral damage that might be wrought to her, to the SDC, to their number of secrets kept hidden.

She’s yelling before she has the thought to help herself, and it is only with the General’s blunt insistence that Signe sits back down. Her fury restrained, if only. (What an omen of ill tidings, what a run of bad luck now made manifest, this war hound bringing calamity with her!)

Mulaghesh, clearly seeing what effect she’s made with her claims (bombs!), tries to placate Signe with a turn of rational thinking. But the Dreyling is already reaching for her case of cigarettes, her lighter flickering in a sharp instant, the smoke filling her lungs. She puffs with the fury of an impatient dragon.

 _Go talk to your security people_ , Mulaghesh insists. _But when you’re done, come back to me. We aren’t done here._

 _Oh, aren’t we?_

Signe clutches the cigarette between clenched teeth, but she knows that rationality and logic will win the argument. Agreements, she remembers, have already been signed. She watches as Mulaghesh begins to dig into her dinner before rushing away from the table.

***

By the time she returns to the table, Signe has attempted to reclaim her air of cool confidence. Though her weaknesses have already now been displayed in full to her _guest_ of sorts, she can still find it in herself to make the effort.

She sits again, lights another in a long line of cigarettes, and pages through the portfolio Mulaghesh offers her. They talk, oddly enough, of divinity. Of Voortya, and all her once terrible glory.

The pages of photos, the disturbed work apparently from the hands of Choudhry -- there are too many pieces of this strange puzzle that Signe is missing, but exhausted and strained, she can’t much care to ask enough questions. She details the history instead, the fealty and the zeal of Voortya’s followers, the promise to her warriors of a gilded afterlife.

Glory wrought from bloodshed (certainly a soldier could see the appeal).

 _Is one officer worth all this?_ After her lengthy explanations, Signe can’t help herself from asking.

 _Huh?_ Mulaghesh only squints at her.

_She’s just one officer._

Signe watches as the General grabs the portfolio from her hands, slamming it shut. She can’t help from raising her eyebrows at the sudden angry response. _She’s worth it._

Suddenly, the conversation turns, and Mulaghesh asks about the sniper. That old attempt on her own life, and Signe can feel her mood cooling. _He gave me quite the haircut_ , she confides, her tone deceptively mild. (Of course she remembers; of course she still dreams of it, if ever she has the time and luxury for dreams.)

_And was that worth it?_

Signe nods, hedges. _Anything else you wish to ask me, General?_

But Mulaghesh doesn’t relent for a bit -- the soldier has found her opening, and advances. She asks further about Signe’s history in Voortyashtan, and suddenly the scarf around her neck feels just a bit tighter.

 _What tribe did you live with?_ Mulaghesh shifts in her seat, considering. Signe must have made a face. _What? It’s not like I asked your sexual preference or something._

The _tone_ of her voice could not grind on her nerves more -- _I’m not sure you could find a way to be cruder_.

When Mulaghesh turns her inquiries back to the divine and their former rituals, Signe cannot help but be relieved.


	4. Chapter 4

Signe’s presence at the civic center is unsurprising. But when she is informed, upon arrival to the public Galleries, that a certain guest of the SDC’s has made her way up to the balcony, there is little time for pondering the decision before she finds herself climbing up the stairwell. (It is a matter of duty, to be sure, but also one of some small curiosity.) Surely enough Mulaghesh is sitting there, arms folded, watching intently at the scene below. 

She takes some time to listen to the arguments presented on the floor (familiar voices and familiar claims echoing along these hallowed halls) before making herself known.

While those below are busy shouting their grievances, real or imagined, she quietly approaches the woman in the chair before her. _This is a bit more energetic than most meetings._

All at once Mulaghesh straightens, raises her head to see the tall Dreyling now hovering just above her chair. She looks Signe over with some interest. _Oh?_

Signe points out those she recognizes below -- Brursk, for example, who is typically as bold as your average bovine, and who now appears nearly to be frothing at the mouth. 

Mulaghesh’s interest is caught, it seems. _Do you come to these things often?_

 _I try to_ , she explains at length. Signe’s role is as detailed and important in this city as one might assume -- hence her assignment in aiding this Saypuri in particular. 

Mulaghesh supposes aloud the intentions of her and the SDC, here now in this room and elsewhere, somewhere far to the future -- when the city is restored and these people assembled below are clamoring for use of the harbor the Dreylings now occupy. 

Signe can respect the General’s (rather blunt) suspicions, she thinks to herself, and the truth in them. She’s in the middle of admitting as much when those below find that very moment to search them out in the crowds and interject.

 _The Dreylings and their great machines grind up the bones of our very culture!_ The woman in the chamber below points and wails. _The Divine will not tolerate this insult, and we shall all pay the price!_

Signe, still standing near Mulaghesh, merely gazes down at the spectacle and wishes they allowed for smoking. Especially as Biswal takes this moment to interject himself, and suddenly the room below turns their entire collective attention to the pair of women above.

She notes the slight tensing of the General’s shoulders, as if they’ve suddenly been found out for something, before Signe’s attention turns to a familiar face. A tribal leader, one with pale yellow tattoos etched along his throat; one who speaks out immediately in her defense.

(Why must this always turn so personal?)

Signe attempts to placate the crowd of onlookers, but already their attention is moving from her to the other woman. Mulaghesh curses, attempts to stand and flee, but after a quick moment of decision making, Signe knows she can’t allow for it. She is _her responsibility now_ , after all.

_Leave now, and you’ll only inspire more questions._

It’s enough to make Mulaghesh pause in her retreat, and as those below begin to outwardly question the General’s presence in the city, it is enough to goad the woman into a conflict.

Signe watches near Mulaghesh’s shoulder as she turns, knocks her wooden prosthetic fist on the banister in ire. She finds a certain respect for the way she looks over the crowd then, a warrior gazing down on a particularly tiring group of adversaries.

_You want to know why I’m here? Here of all places on this damned world?_

_Tell us!_ The crowd clamors, forgetting at all once their old arguments. _Tell us!_

Signe watches as Mulaghesh snarls down to them, _I’m on vacation, you dumb sons of bitches!_

***

There are, admittedly, some delicate political matters to take care of after Mulaghesh storms off righteously from the scene. Signe has a long list of responsibilities toward this city and its people, regardless of her own opinions on the arguments presented below on this day, in particular, and thus it is some time later before she manages to catch up with the other woman.

Thankfully still in the halls, she finds Mulaghesh lingering over some of the historic artifacts on display in the Galleries. A mask, its rows of teeth as sharp and vicious as they were during its time of inception. A relic in the likeness of a Voortyashtani sentinel. Whatever a Saypuri might feel in its hungry regard, Signe has no way to understand.

She sinks back and considers the scene for a moment before approaching. _Not an original, of course_ , she explains, perhaps as a matter of reassurance. 

Mulaghesh turns, her expression as sardonic as ever (and perhaps, maybe even slightly relieved), _It had fucking well better not be._

Signe walks over and stands just at the General’s shoulder. She asks, again for the sake of her own curiosity, just what she sees when she looks at such a thing as this mask. Mulaghesh, in turn, asks her the very same.

Her answer, in contrast, is mostly academic, removed from the emotions her counterpart has presented without restraint -- admitting to the blood and the death only a Saypuri soldier could see. Signe, hands calmly resting the pockets of her leather jacket, attempts to explain the ramifications of Mulaghesh’s presence in the room that day.

The effect a seasoned warrior such as herself brings to the locals and their culture, a culture built from the bloody blades of Voortya and her army of sentinels, her culture of war and death.

For her part, Mulaghesh takes a moment to cock her head and consider this. It isn’t long, of course before the conversation turns around to Signe. _Why did that one group stand up when you spoke? Some of them looked like they were saluting you, in some way._

Signe’s breathing is calm, but it takes some time for her to decide on an answer. She explains, as briefly as she can (her chin moves to dip under the edges of the tight scarf wrapping around her neck).

 _They are not my family,_ she makes a point of insisting. 

She expects the matter to be adequately settled, but she realizes Mulaghesh is still watching her. Like a damned bloodhound, she won’t let a matter go that simply.

 _You said they respected those who dealt death,_ she asks, her eyes focused on Signe, working the matter out piece by piece. As if she’s a damned puzzle waiting to be solved. _And they seemed to respect you a whole lot in there, CTO Harkvaldsson._

Signe wants to shout -- grinds her teeth together instead, forces herself to shove away her sudden protest. What is it with this woman, and her questions, and her blunt manner of upheaval to everything?

 _Have a good afternoon, General,_ she forces out carefully, turns, and leaves.


	5. Chapter 5

In the deepest recesses of the SDC headquarters, in the middle of a cluttered, windowless, utilitarian room that Signe calls her office, she sits herself down to the large worktable in the middle of the room and pages quietly through her piles of papers. It is some odd hour of the evening, and this is one of the brief periods she has scheduled for her private time. 

A mug of coffee sits cooling by her elbow, a cigarette dangles from the edge of a cluttered ashtray. Her hands move around for a clean sheet of paper. Something suitable for notes, perhaps, but after a few minutes of idly twirling her pen between her fingers, soon she is drawing lines. 

Here, might be the swirl of gears, or there, the delicate curves of a palm. Her other hand reaches instinctively over for her cigarette, and just as she is leaning most intently over this new drawing, there is a knock at the door.

Signe looks up. 

It is a messenger from the Fort.

***

Here then is the newest disaster. The reports splatter across the table in a chaotic clutter -- an explosion at a nearby military installation they report, a sudden swath of violence with no clear culprit.

Up the winding cliff roads to Fort Thinadeshi, inside the chaotic confines of the main conference room, Signe tries to deal with this new emergency. Before the panic spreads itself all the way down to the docks -- and as General Biswal leans over the conference table (his hands gripping the edges as if to break the surface somehow in two) shouts orders to Nadar and the other runners, as Rada cowers somewhere in a corner and begs not to be seen, Signe can feel everything around her begin to unravel.

(Her mind still rallies for order. She looks to the maps pinned to the wall, skimming numbers, distance, details, searching out some pure rational thinking to replace the swell of anxiety in her chest.)

 _I expect your full cooperation_ , Biswal spits in her direction.

The thought of possible military inspections through the more delicate areas of the SDC work sites have her bristled. _And I would expect yours_ , she says, her fingers pinched at the end of another cigarette.

The skirmish between those in the room threatens to boil over, but then, as the conversation threatens to turn very ugly, the harsh sound of a chair scraping against the floor has them all in silence.

Ash drips down on her fingers. Signe stares.

_Don’t mind me, I’d hate to interrupt._

There, as all chaos and calamity swirl into the finest pinpoint, as red and searing as the end of the General’s lit cigarillo, those already in the room watch as Mulaghesh makes herself comfortable. 

Signe takes a deep breath for composure -- she notes the woman’s drenched army fatigues, the dirty smeared on her hands. While Biswal and Nadar have been pouring over roadmaps and access points, it seems their ally has been out in the field. (Or whatever is left of it, this supposed excavation site that is now, by all reports, something of a smoldering crater.)

 _General Mulaghesh_ , Biswal says to clear the silence. _Kind of you to join us._

He attempts a weak attempt at interogation -- Mulaghesh, sitting calmly at the conference table, drenched and dirty, her eyes squinting from the harsh light of the room.

Her response is candid enough, and soon enough the conversation is steered back around to the excavation site.

 _The nature and value of the mines is classified_ , Biswal says to Mulaghesh, his reticence in discussing the mature in front of Signe becoming very apparent (she is not the only one, it seems, with secrets to keep).

But before she has an attempt to chime in the matter, another set of runners appear at the door, lead by none other than Pandey.

The short, lean military officer hands her one of the envelopes he is carrying and the two exchange a glance. 

\-- It is almost enough to calm her from this situation. Assaulted on all sides by possible threat, to her affiliates, to their work, to her own secrets, it is some comfort to find a friend. (Their history is nearly as long as her time working with the SDC on this project -- from acquaintances, to lovers, to friends, they have navigated themselves to a surprising place of trust and comradery.)

But it is a short-lived comfort, Pandey’s presence. Signe opens the envelope in her hands, reads through the important lines of news.

Biswal spits, _Who the hell is supposed to be showing up on our doorstep?_

It is Rada, still at the edge of the room, who takes this moment to speak up. Confirming what the letter in Signe’s hands says, a sharp shot of ice sliding down her spine as she speaks.

 _Ch-Chancellor je Harkvaldsson is g-going to be_ here _?_

 _Who?_ Biswal asks, and it’s all Signe can do not to flick her cigarette in his direction.

She takes a careful breath before responding.

_My father._

Appropriately, Mulaghesh curses out in surprise.

While everyone begins to chatter amongst themselves and their subordinates rushing in and out of the room now, Signe takes a moment to whisper to Pandey. They exchange glances, and an unspoken agreement is formed to meet at another time.

This quiet exchange, however, doesn’t go unnoticed.

***

Chancellor Sigurd je Harkvaldsson, the _dauvkin_ , and his ship arrive at Voortyashtan the next evening.

Signe again finds herself waiting at the edge of the pier. Her home, her kingdom, now assaulted at all sides. 

She ignores those lining the docks to watch their lost prince emerge, cluttered along the docks and waiting along the edges of the cliffs, looking downward, hopeful and expectant. There in front of her, navigating the hazardous waters of the bay, emerges the ship, its once-glorious sails now tattered and torn. Scarred and deadly, the ship angles itself in her direction.

Signe reaches in her jacket for her case of cigarettes and waits to greet her father.


	6. Chapter 6

With a flick of a switch, the string of lights littering the storage space begin to glow. Signe's grown accustomed to this sight -- cluttered rows of relics, the solemn stare of stone saints, a room filled with the SDC's secrets. The locals might look around and find something sacred here, but her own gaze skims the room with little personal sentiment.

This is a calculation, a risk for future profit based on knowledge and numbers. This is her big gamble -- and this now is a secret shared with, of all damned people, her father.

(The man who claims that title, clutched in his hands like some prize, beyond his once-feigned death and now to haunt her with.)

She leads him into the room, focusing on the task at hand. At facts. 

But it's been a hell of a night already, and her calm is frayed, fractured. His company is the last she needs, one she'll never ask for, but one that she's stuck with now. Again she tries to find some order in this chaos. 

She waves a hand at the statues, knows them by their serial numbers given, discards the holy titles. _We're presuming for now that the two types of statues had two very different purposes, one utilitarian, one decoration. The ones on the shore of the Solda were decoration, and thus were made of ordinary stone, which hasn't held up well to the change in climate. These are much... Well. More durable._

Signe can feel Sigrud's gaze follow her as she walks forward, feels icy dread drain down her neck. _It seems the Voortyashtanis of old had many secrets, even beyond those of their Divinity._

It takes far too long for Sigrud to speak up, and she fights every urge to claw into her pockets for a cigarette. He asks about the relics and their uses, but an engineer makes for a poor historian, and she rattles off possibilities, observable facts.

_We have used our contact at the fortress to procure a list of Divine tests. Methods that can be used to determine the Divine nature of any...phenomenon, or object, or whatever. All the statues tested negative. That should suffice, shouldn't it?_

She looks over at him, a dead man dressed in jewels, a phantom who refuses the tomb, as if her hard stare can will him somehow will him back to the ship and back to the sea.

Instead, he turns the conversation around entirely. Infuriatingly.

_I heard that someone once shot at you._

_What?_

(She can't begin to fathom his expression.)

_Someone shot at you. Clipped your hair. Is this true?_

Her thoughts scatter for a moment, reorganize. _Yes, that happened some time ago. We've taken extra security measures since._

He persists, for whatever reason. Pins her with an odd expression. _And the bombing? The explosives? You considered this a threat as well?_

 _Yes, but such fears proved unfounded._ (Does he think her still a small child, does he consider her incapable of running this project?) _So. Back to the issue at hand. Our security_ here _has thus far been airtight._

Signe reasserts herself, or attempts as much. But when she is finished, she cannot help but ask. _Do you think our current strategy is wise? Or do you wish to...correct it for me?_

She watches as Sigrud keeps silent, again, thinking to himself. Her future dangling from his fingers.

_Well?_

_I trust what you are doing._

Signe has him repeat this statement, as if she can't quite decipher his words, his intent. And when the Chancellor, her _father_ , admits that he himself would rather see these statues dipped back into the angry sea, but has decided to allow her this course of action ( _allow_ her this path that she, master of this site and architect of this entire vision, has chosen).

She asks him why. 

_Because_ , he says with effort, _I think you are good at this._

_You don't seem to happy about it._

Sigrud says nothing -- but she won't allow him that.

_I get quite sick of your silences. They aren't nearly as clever as you think they are._

He argues the point, in his own infuriating way, then asks, again, _How many times has someone tried to kill you here?_

 _Why?_ As if her words could be sharp, sharp enough to cut and bleed out his real intentions.

_Because I wish to know._

_I don't think it matters._

_I do._

She snorts at this assertion.

 _Is it acceptable_ , he asks her, _to risk your life to build this? If you died here, on the shores of this country, below these cranes, would you feel you spent your life well?_

_This is an abrupt change in your disposition._

_Should I not be concerned about my daughter's welfare?_

Signe thinks to herself, arms folded across her chest tightly, that he can't hardly imagine the dangers she's evaded. The wolves who chased them for years, the blood that's been spilled (the blood that _she_ has had to spill, when there was no one there to watch over her -- none but herself, and she is _nothing_ if not capable).

The anger is hot and burns and smolders, sudden and all at once. _Do you have any idea how many times someone tried to kill me and mother and Carin when we_ lived _here? Do you know how many times we almost_ starved _to death?_

_We had this conversation..._

_We had_ your _conversation,_ she argues, the resentment she's held back now burning on her tongue. Signe raises her voice enough for her words to echo in the room, the statues a witness to this family fractured in pieces, and when she is finished Sigrud gives her another strange stare.

_I forget how young you are sometimes._

_No, what you forget is that you don't really know me at all._

And this is how she leaves her father, to his silences and to the monuments of the dead.

Signe thinks him foolish and absurd as she stalks away. As if he looks at her, and sees only his dim memories. As if she's still a small child, playing games and running through the woods -- but she doesn't look back, and she isn't waiting any longer for him to catch up with her.

She pulls the jacket more tightly around her tall frame, an effort to keep back the biting sea winds and her own sharp memories.


	7. Chapter 7

She isn't gone long. Those bitter feelings are pushed down if not stomped out, and Signe reminds herself that _work_ takes precedence over personal matters. However much they've entwined that night, she can't simply leave the Chancellor alone without attending to other details.

(She did, after all, just argue the case for her her own competence.) 

So she stalks around the SDC site for a small while, furiously puffing away at a cigarette, before heading back toward the bleak direction of the storage area. The runners find her along this journey and offer a few more troubling updates, an intruder poking around in the midst of the excitement. Some opportunistic rogue --

Signe stalks through the security door and finds them, sitting with her father, chatting away. Thick as thieves.

Of course, she thinks hotly, giving the two a savage nod. 

(At least Mulaghesh has the ability to look sheepish.)

_Well, isn't this a delight._

Mulaghesh stands. _Evening, CTO Harkvaldsson. Lovely night, isn't it?_

***

She's arguing again with her father before she can stop herself. This is foolish of her, perhaps, and certainly distracting. Mulaghesh uses the opportunity to make herself seem invisible. At least until the argument dies down, just enough for her to whisper something behind Signe's back.

Signe turns, confused. There, standing in front of the nearest statue (one of Voortya the bloody Goddess herself), Mulaghesh is looking upward, transfixed. Troubled by something Signe herself can't see.

Scattered, distracted, she can't do much more than watch as Mulaghesh falls to the ground.

_General?_

Sigrud moves first, hovering over her, and Signe can't decide who she's more irritated with.

***

Mulaghesh wakes momentarily, only to fall unconscious once again, muttering things only she can understand. Signe attempts to hide her growing concern but she is thankful, she thinks, that her father takes this opportunity to be somewhat useful.

He carries the general back to her room at the SDC Headquarters. They both seem to silently agree that this is the best course of action, and Signe convinces him afterward to leave Mulaghesh in her care. So to speak (she remains, after all, Signe's overall responsibility). 

Signe looks around the room, noting the other woman's belongings, bottles of cheap local wine and empty tinctures. Aside from her state of annoyance and concern, there is a curiosity she can't help herself from -- a natural need to pull apart the mystery that is General Mulaghesh and make some sense of it.

\-- Not that she's had much luck, she thinks, sitting at the side of the bed and placing a gloved hand over Mulaghesh's forehead. No fever. 

Just some strange bout of ailment she doesn't understand. Another emergency that requires her attention. Signe considers leaving, but can't seem to quite get out the door. The employees bring her updates, and so she simply takes up residence in a chair by the bed, looking over notes and going through her case of cigarettes. 

Time passes. She looks over, feeling annoyed for something she can't quite place (pick any number of reasons and they're likely to be a factor) and keeps herself from pacing.

Finally, Mulaghesh stirs, and Signe doesn't have a chance to feel relieved -- the woman wakes screaming, sitting up and reaching for something that isn't there.

_What is the_ matter _with you?_

The annoyance comes out too easily. Mulaghesh, in turn, reacts likewise.

_The fuck are you doing? Keeping vigil?_

If Signe had been holding a cigarette, she thinks she might've felt some urge to flick it in her general direction. _Looking after you. You passed out like you had some sort of episode or something._

_Shit._

Mulaghesh leans back, rubbing at her forehead. Signe watches.

_Head hurt?_

_Shut the fuck up for a second._

_Aren't you a pleasant creature in the morning,_ she says, glancing over to the windows, a sliver of light piercing through the curtains. _Though it's closer to noon._

Mulaghesh keeps quiet. Too long, for her, and without their familiar banter to fall back on, Signe starts to grow concerned in spite of herself. She leans forward in her chair, as if she isn't sure whether or not to go over to her.

_Are you alright? Is it... Are you having flashbacks?_

Mulaghesh grumbles. _What?_

_Flashbacks. You're a soldier. I know... What is it they call it... War echoes? Battle echoes?_

_Where's your dad? Where's Biswal?_

Signe waves off the questions. _No, that was cancelled. And that's another reason why I'm here._

She tells Mulaghesh about the headless body they found, up in the cliffs near the fort. The news is troubling in itself, but at the idea that the body just might be that of the woman the General is looking for, Mulaghesh makes the foolish attempt to try and stand.

She watches as the other woman nearly falls to the floor before Signe finds herself rushing over.

_By the seas_ , she's cursing, and her arms are already outstretched, _You're not well._

Signe is scolding her as she helps the woman stand, finds her to be solid, if not a bit lighter than she expects (she's hesitant to let her wobble away in this state).

But still she's stubborn as ever. _You're damned right I'm not well! Where's my weapon?_

Signe gives her a stern look but retrieves the gun from the nightstand. _Off to duel with someone, General?_

_You see your father, you tell him I want to see him._

(That hasn't stopped being a source of annoyance, either.)

_And what shall I tell him you wish to see him for?_

Signe remains standing close, as if she isn't quite sold on this idea regardless. Mulaghesh seems to fight herself over the words.

_Tell him it's Ministry work. Just tell him that._


	8. Chapter 8

The conspiring has gone on long enough. It is only a matter of time after Sigrud goes missing (as if no one would bother to _notice_ the Chancellor's absence!) that Signe would need to, as CTO of this entire operation, be required to search him out. Not for her _own_ sake, but the incessant gossip on site is more than enough to deal with -- now of all times.

So of course, there is only one dubious place to look for him.

After being notified of Mulaghesh's return to the SDC headquarters, Signe takes the matter into her own hands. The building's architecture and its various nooks and crannies are, admittedly, rather well known to her. The servants' doors lead her to a series of narrow, winding halls that connect to many of the more important rooms -- the General's included. 

Now, Signe hasn't had any need to use such methods before. Not even with Mulaghesh fainting in odd spells and getting herself into many sordid issues in Voortyashtan did she feel compelled to sneak about in this way. But -- a certain bit of subtlety couldn't hurt in this case. It's pure, rational thinking.

In any matter, Signe finds herself just outside the vice-presidential suite, lingering in the gray gloom of the hall and catching the faint whispers of conversation in the room beyond. She narrows her eyes in the darkness, thinking. Sigrud's voice is easy enough to recognize, as is Mulaghesh's usual litany of expletives (and oh how right she is about these conspiracies) but then -- another voice, one entirely unknown to her joins the pair.

She didn't have much time to think it over.

Light bursts into the hall in a sudden painfully bright sweep, and with it a single large and imposing figure. Signe is grabbed. She shrieks in protest and is tossed into the suite.

It is embarrassing and undignified. She gazes down the barrel of Mulaghesh's ridiculous rifle with a look of shock.

_How dare you treat me like that!_

Mulaghesh shrugs toward the open entrance, looking perturbed. _I guess you forgot to tell me you had one of these in my room._

_You didn't ask!_ Signe makes a decent excuse for herself in the heat of the moment. She attempts to stand a bit straighter as she speaks. _If you had ordered food it'd have come through that very door. It's all perfectly innocent!_

That's perhaps arguable now, but Mulaghesh appears to turn the idea around. _I can order food from my room?_

_What else did you think the button in the corner with the sign RING FOR SERVICE is for?_ Signe eyes the gun. _Please stop pointing that at me._

_What did you hear?_

_Nothing_ , she says, looking around the room. At the table and its hideous pile of chicken bones, bread crumbs and emptied jugs, her father puffing at his pipe and seemingly ignoring them (how _dare_ he), but not, it seemed, the mysterious third party.

_That's a pretty bold lie_ , Mulaghesh argues.

_I didn't come here to eavesdrop!_

_Maybe_ , and now finally Mulaghesh lowers her gun, _But that's what you wound up doing. What'd you hear?_

Signe, relishing briefly in her advantage of height, crosses her arms over her chest in a symbol of some defiance. As if she'd never been caught by the arm and hauled out of the shadows to begin with. _You can't shoot me, you know. This is my company's property. I could leave right now._

_Try it. I might have one hand, but I still know how to restrain someone and not leave a mark._

Signe's eyebrows raise at this idea. She gives her father another glance. _Are you going to allow this?_

\-- Not the greatest of ideas, asking him for help. She watches as he gets up from his seat.

_I remember today, when you introduced me to the welders here, then abandoned me, leaving me with them._ Sigrud, with all calm and insufferable defiance under her angry gaze, slips toward the door. _It is no fun, being stuck in a difficult spot._

Signe watches him evaporate from the room, nearly unbelieving. Mulaghesh, for her sake, gestures between two empty nearby chairs. This conversation is apparently far from over. 

_So. The afterlife._

Signe moves to sit, but she freezes, if only for a moment. 

Caught.

Mulaghesh takes up her own chair. _Yeah, you heard. You heard a lot. Why don't we have a civil conversation about this?_

Signe sits, reaches for her metal cigarette case, and recalls an earlier scene -- the fort, the General's interrogation as to her own whereabouts, the breezy defiance. Now, it seems as if it is her turn to be held accountable. 

_All right. I will be direct._


End file.
